‘It’s a Knockout, that’s right.’
‘What about it?’
‘Nothing.’ Simon turned and looked out of the window. It was a bright day. He wished he’d brought his sunglasses.
Even with his head turned away he could feel Daisy’s frustration. She wouldn’t have liked him to elaborate, though. Not really. He was thinking that sometimes life was something akin to a great big game of It’s a Knockout. The show was designed to emphasise skill or organisation. Brains mattered, strength and endurance too. People always started the game grinning, showing great determination and spirit but everyone ended up looking foolish; wet, exhausted, broken. Yeah, life was like that game except it wasn’t pies that were thrown, it was infertility, depression, madness, infidelity, death. No one was immune, no one was safe. You think you’re doing OK, drifting along, going to university, getting hired, getting laid, getting married, things are going well and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a great big blast of icy water knocks you off your greasy pole. Daisy wouldn’t want to hear him say that.
If they had to visit his mother every Sunday, Simon would have liked to do so in the mornings. It was not that he was a make-the-most-of-the-day sort of person, far from it. If anything, it was more of a get-it-over-with mindset. There were two main reasons for his preference. Firstly, if they arrived at 11 a.m. they had to leave at 1 p.m. because that was when the carers served the strained mush that they called lunch to the oldies, so the visit could be a maximum of two hours. Secondly, he liked to go out for long pub lunches, the sort that shimmered with the chance of swelling into the afternoon. There was nothing better in the winter than a roast, washed down by a bottle of red, maybe a couple of whiskies, in front of a fire. In the summer he was more of a G&T guy. The long lingering lunches weren’t possible if they had to be at the care home by 2 p.m. However, Daisy didn’t agree with Simon. She’d decided it was more convenient to visit his mother in the afternoon. That way she could take Millie to the dance studio for a private lesson in the morning and have a big meal in the evening. Millie wasn’t even dancing this week, but it seemed there was no room for flexibility. Simon was pretty sure Millie could be dancing again by now, she seemed as bright as a button, fully recovered. She was practically climbing the walls, she had so much energy to spend, but Daisy wouldn’t hear of it. Daisy was milking it, making more of the accident than need be. She was punishing him. Still. Even after the success of the garden camping. It didn’t matter what he did. How hard he tried. Daisy wasn’t the forgiving type.
She was such a hypocrite.
Daisy argued that the long, lazy lunches weren’t as much fun for her as she always drove. She did most of the driving when Millie was with them. She never said anything directly, but he knew she didn’t quite trust him, didn’t think he was quite up to it. It was insulting if you thought about it, so he tried not to think about it. In all honesty, he did have a bit of a thick head, it was probably best that she drove. Simon hated Sundays. They were swamped with a sense of dread and impending doom. He always had a shot of whisky before he visited his mother. It took the edge off. He couldn’t quite remember when he’d started this habit, a year ago? Maybe more.
Dr Martell was back in his head today. The fucker. He thought he’d pushed him out but, today, he’d crawled back in.
Daisy was such a hypocrite.
At first, Simon thought they were going to have a good afternoon with his mother. She was dressed appropriately, smartly in fact. His mother used to have standards, she was a consistently beautiful, elegant woman, but that was no longer the case. He hated it when he found her wearing someone else’s scruffy tracksuit, maybe because the staff had got the washing mixed up, maybe because she’d stolen it. Today she was wearing a neat blue dress, tights and shoes. Not mismatched socks and grubby slippers. Someone had brushed her thin, white hair; even put on a bit of lipstick for her. There was some on her teeth but that was not necessarily anything to do with dementia, Daisy often had lipstick on her teeth. Simon felt cheered and had a quick slug from his flask by way of celebration. But then Elsie started to talk, and Simon realised the lipstick was just a mask for the chaos.
‘Who is this?’ Elsie demanded imperiously, pointing at Daisy.
‘It’s Daisy, Mum. My wife,’ Simon explained unenthusiastically.
Unperturbed, Daisy kissed his mum’s cheek. ‘Hello, Elsie. You’re looking lovely today. What a chic dress. Look, we’ve brought you some flowers.’
Millie sprang forward. Everything was a performance for her. She beamed and held out the yellow roses.
His mum stared at Daisy, Millie and the flowers with a mix of hostility and surprise. Then her face melted. It was like water. One minute frozen, the next liquid. Simon thought that one day she would evaporate. ‘Thank you, they are beautiful,’ she said graciously. ‘So, you are the new wife, are you? I like you far better than the last one. She was podgy and giggly. A horrible combination.’
Daisy sighed. It was a fact that she used to carry a few extra pounds, something Simon’s mother – a lifetime borderline anorexic – hated with a level of ferocity that most people reserved for paedophiles. Also, when Simon first met Daisy, her thing was giggling. She would frequently erupt into chortles and even outright laughter, when most people were only moved to wryly grin in amusement. Simon had thought it was a result of being a teacher, always being around kids. She found life fun, entertaining. He liked it about her. Now, he’d say her thing was sighing.
‘I’ll go and see if the nurse has a vase,’ said Daisy.
‘Go with your mum,’ Simon instructed Millie.
‘It’s not a two-person job,’ commented Daisy. ‘Millie, stay with your grandma. Tell her what you’ve been up to at school this week.’
Millie looked from left to right, eyes swivelling between her parents. She was an obedient child and found it confusing when they issued conflicting sets of instructions. Which they did with increasing frequency. She hovered near the door, unsure what to do. Simon chose to ignore her. The moment Daisy left the room, he started to rummage through his mother’s bedside cabinet.
‘What are you looking for?’ Millie asked.
‘Bedsocks,’ he lied.
Elsie suddenly engaged. ‘Are you looking for this?’ She held up a large print book.
‘No.’
‘Are you looking for this?’ She waved a banana.
‘No, I said bedsocks,’ he muttered impatiently. Simon found the gin at the back of the cabinet, behind the bed socks. His uncle Alan brought his mother a half bottle every week. It was an irresponsible gift to give a dementia sufferer but, no doubt, Alan believed any comfort he could offer the old lady was justified at this stage. Every Thursday when Alan visited, he secreted a bottle in the cupboard and he believed Elsie knocked it back throughout the week. She didn’t, but the gift was gratefully received. Simon quickly put it in his laptop bag, which he’d brought for this purpose. Millie looked at her feet.
‘Is this what you are looking for?’ Elsie pulled out her hearing aid and shoved it under his nose. Simon could see her ear wax on the plastic.
‘No, I told you—’
‘What are you looking for?’ This time, the question came from Daisy. She was stood in the doorway next to Millie, holding the flowers which were now in a vase of water.
‘Nothing. She’s confused, you know what she’s like.’ He turned away and looked out of the window. There wasn’t much to see. A carer was pushing an old man in a wheelchair around the small garden. It took less than thirty seconds for them to do a lap. The silence in the room was deafening. Simon wished his mother would say something. She could usually be relied upon to talk nonsense to fill a gap.
Daisy carefully placed the vase on the bedside cabinet. She bent and closed the cupboard door. ‘What did you put in your bag?’
‘Nothing.’